


Still Here

by Rococospade



Series: Before the nightmare [4]
Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Apprentice Amelia, Canon-Typical Violence, Choir Laurence, Gen, Graphic Description, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Laurence is allergic to emotions, Mentions of murder-suicide, Pre-Canon, Pre-Slash, Romantic Friendship, Shady Ludwig, Touch-Starved, Touchy-Feely
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-23 08:40:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30052818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rococospade/pseuds/Rococospade
Summary: Maria has been gone for fifteen years. Laurence tries to deal with that, and that he's still living when so many of his friends are dead, and the realization that maybe avoiding Ludwig for the last fourteen anniversaries of Maria's death in particular was kind of a dick move.On the other end of things Ludwig is more forgiving than he probably ought to be, but he's also one of the last people in the world that can reallyhurtLaurence, and when he wants to draw blood his aim is impeccable; whether with bullets or with words.--Absolutely no action, just Laurence dragging himself kicking and screaming through some introspection and being scolded a bit for his ego. Loose sequel to "We Should Talk About This" and in the same continuity as Choral Composition, but should be readable as a standalone story.
Relationships: Laurence & Ludwig (Bloodborne)
Series: Before the nightmare [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2120991
Kudos: 8





	Still Here

**Author's Note:**

> Hey look "We should talk about this" got continued after all.  
> This was sitting in my side stories file as a prompt: "Ludwig had impeccable aim, and he always shot for the heart and the head, in that order — with a rifle and with his words. Unfortunately. 
> 
> At some point while Laurence hadn’t been paying attention, Ludwig had become one of the only things that could hurt him."
> 
> Laurence is Allergic to Emotions, thank you. His and other people's. Don't make him _Feel Things._  
>  Before I forget to mention again, it is 100% because of cloudycats' "fool me" that conquering a city comes up here at all. The concept will probably be revisited.  
> So thanks to cloudycats for the tantalizing image of Laurence running a coup and MissMonie for reading this monster even though it made her cry, and to Myou for helping me make it hurt worse. <3

It was incredible how fast time moved, when you weren’t waiting on something. One moment he was at a funeral, another in front of a door long shut, and now—

Now he was—

— Fuck. Had it really been fifteen years? How could it have been? But yes, when he dragged himself out of bed last night, it had been the eve of the anniversary. He’d lived it fourteen times before. He counted, every year.

It hurt. Of course it hurt. But he had a life, and Maria chose to leave it. He would not spend the rest of his life mourning her like someone in an old tragedy. For one, it would be miserable, and for another he had things to do, and third — well. Maria would have called him an idiot for it. It wasn’t something she would have wanted, even at her most malicious.

So even though he would rather not, the evening of the anniversary, Laurence woke and noticed the date and he still got out of bed. He washed, he dressed, he combed and styled his hair and lotioned his skin and went through the million tiny ablutions and rituals that the living were resigned to because they weren’t in a coffin yet, and because that was just what you _did_ when you weren’t ready to descend. (Ascend, ascend, how long had it been since he’d dared to hope-?)

It was not really something he should do when there was a scourge outbreak, but he marked the night off in his calendar. The Church had gotten by the last fourteen years on this day without him, and he thought another wouldn’t kill anyone. (And… realistically, someone would send for him if they really, truly needed _him_ and no one else. So there was that. It wasn’t like where he was going was a secret.)

Sometimes, his ego wasn’t the size of the city; sometimes, he remembered that he was human and replaceable. Usually around this day. Usually, when he remembered arranging his friend’s limbs in a coffin, folding her hands over her chest, arranging the sleeves to conceal the bloodstains, and kissing her cheeks for the last time, and then going to clean up the mess she’d left behind because there were things you just didn’t _leave up_ _to_ other people, whether you were the Vicar or not.

Laurence went to the kitchen, edged around the scullery maid and took a loaf of bread and some fruit, and wrapped them in a clean towel. He took a bottle of wine from the rack after some thought (wine, which was by now nearly worthless in Yharnum — the flavour was lacklustre, the alcohol did nothing — another casualty of Laurence’s curiosity, and desperation) and headed for the door.

He picked up his cane — just because he wasn’t working didn’t mean work wouldn’t come find him — told his guards to take the night off (their looks of despair brought him a little joy) and he walked out of the Vicar’s estate, down towards the town square.

The Ward wasn’t quiet — he could hear gasping from the alleys, wet moans and hisses and snarls. Saw the spectres that lingered out of most peoples’ sight clustered on lamps and tomb stones and statues; nodded to the amygdalae perched on the spires of the chapels, whose heads swung to follow him when he walked by. But it was peaceful, or as close to it as it ever got. The church servants and giants let him pass by without complaint. The hunters patrolling the streets steered very clear of him. And Laurence was — alright, so he wasn’t happy. But he didn’t feel like he was about to boil over, and that was an improvement over prior years.

He took a winding route to Oedon chapel, then stepped through to the elevator, crossed the bridge, and descended the tower. (There were faster ways to get there, or there used to be. But after saying he would go… Gehrman had extinguished the lantern, and barred the doors behind him, destroyed the path down. And that was its own message: _don’t follow me._ Most days Laurence could pretend it didn’t hurt, but today was-)

( _Don’t think about it. Focus on what you can fix._ )

He made his way down the ledges carefully, and landed at the bottom of the tower with a little huff of effort. Then he pushed open the doors.

The garden was overgrown. Laurence picked a careful path through the flowers, ignoring the cobblestones because he — he just didn’t have it in him to walk that old path. He couldn’t shake the feeling that if he walked alongside those ghosts he’d end up joining them, and he couldn’t do that, he really couldn’t, he had too many mistakes to fix and too many people to look after.

(If Laurence joined the ghosts, then he’d be leaving Ludwig as the last of the Old Hunters. If Ludwig was the only one left… No. It seemed cruel, like an insult, or a parting shot after a lifetime of petty fights and not-apologies and warm touches that Laurence never knew how to express gratitude for. Laurence couldn’t _do that_. He’d rather die for protecting something he loved and bled for than trying to catch up to a past that had outrun him.)

(But _gods,_ if he didn’t think about it.)

The doors were locked. Laurence thought of picking it, shook his head, and knocked twice on the door.

“Gehrman,” He called, expecting no answer; this was part of the ritual. “I’ve come to see you. I am going to see Maria.”

Of course, Gehrman did not answer him. He had left some time ago, one way or the other. But he had locked the door, and — it was so easy to imagine he’d reappear in there again one day, and Laurence need only knock and call out for him to unbar the door…

( _“It’s only me, Gehrman, let me in from the cold a while.”_ )

He pressed his hand against the wood until it ached, then drew away and walked down the path, then circled back up to the far end of the workshop. Inclined his head to the other graves. Tried the far door for the sake of habit. (Locked. Locked locked _locked_ and gone.)

Laurence sighed, backed off, and went to kneel at the grave beside the workshop. He brought up his hand and caressed the top of the headstone. “There you are, you troublesome woman. It’s been a while since I’ve come to see you.… I must apologize for that. It’s been busy.”

It was quiet, and too cold for crickets. The Abandoned Workshop (Laurence felt sick to think of it so, and yet what choice did he have?) was peaceful in a way the rest of the City could never be; it was sequestered, and silent from sterility. Laurence might have been the only thing around that was bigger than a bug, and alive. At least… properly.

“I dreamed of you, you know, a few nights ago.” Laurence told her, “You were alive again. And quite vulgar… You seemed to think I’d helped bring you back, which is frankly ridiculous. I wouldn’t be going grey if I could just rip the dead out of their slumber whenever I pleased.” He paused, thought of the Pthumerians walking his Ward, and smiled without humour. “Well, if I could rip them out properly, in any case. Ah. I can only imagine what you would do if I brought you back like that… Gehrman would probably cry… Ludwig might actually kill me for the desecration. You don’t need to worry about that for the moment.” He rubbed his fingers over the etchings. “… what else have you missed… Ah, I saw something that would have amused you last week.” Laurence smiled to himself. “You know that attack Ludwig has with the claymore, where he swipes the blade parallel to the ground? Well, he did it during a spar with one of the younger hunters, and the lad _leapt on the blade_ and attacked him for it. It was completely mad, and worse for _working!_ I wish you could have seen Ludwig’s face, I really do…” He laughed a little, and his chest stung and his eyes burned. “He wanted to shout and laugh at the same time. You know the face he used to make, when…” He trailed off, because he heard something, and opened his eyes. Laurence looked around him. Nothing — but he’d heard… no. No, he was the only thing here. With that thought, he was abruptly reminded that he was talking to a stone. Maria had been quiet, but usually she would tap her finger or… hum… or… something.

(On the edge of his hearing he could swear someone _was_ tapping their finger, but he… was sure that wasn’t true, was only his mind playing tricks.)

He wanted to leave. But there were rites yet undone, so he lingered to observe them. “I don’t know if he’s been to see you yet.” Laurence told the stone. “It can be a little hard to come down here for me, and he’s - he’s a bit softer than I am, isn’t he.”

Having asked, he ran his fingers over the engraving, clearing away dust and dead plant matter, signs that Ludwig had not yet visited. If he had it would have been done before, by his careful hand instead of Laurence’s half-hearted swiping at the letters. “… is it better where you went, Ria?” He asked the stone. “Does it bother you any less? Or… was suffering the point?”

The stone did not answer him.

Laurence shut his eyes and focused on breathing until the world felt a little less like it was going to crash in. He took the bread and fruit and the bottle of wine from his robe, and unfolded the cloth around them, and spread it over the grave. He arranged the meat on it, though with it all in the open, it seemed too meagre of an offering to leave. Laurence inventoried his possessions. Maria’s hair ribbon — no. That was his now. His broach — she would be irritated by the gesture. A loose blood gem — well, maybe? Throwing knives, no, an apple (why had that been in his pockets?) an… eye, absolutely not. At the bottom of another pocket, he found a quickening bone. Maria had been especially fond of them, terror that she was. Laurence laid that down beside the other offering.

When it touched the earth, he felt as if a thread had been cut. He let go of the headstone, and stood up. “… I’ll see you in a year, chère amie. Try to rest.” Having said so, Laurence cast a long look at the workshop doors. Of course, they stayed shut. He turned to go.

At the gate he paused, long enough to shut it, and to murmur to the path below his feet, “I’ll see you soon, Gehrman.”

He took a hunter’s mark from his sleeve and pressed it to his forehead, visualizing the rune.

The world faded away.

#

Laurence stumbled a little before he found his footing. The Cathedral Lantern. He looked around, but — no one was there to mind him. It was quiet, and dark, with candles burning low, and one person inside, an apprentice who… should have been praying, but was suspiciously quiet where she was kneeling by the altar. Laurence arched his brows and took a few steps closer. Yes, that was Amelia, and- yes. To judge by her soft breathing, she had fallen asleep with her arms and forehead against the raised stone.

Ridiculous creature. Laurence glanced longingly at the doors, then approached his apprentice’s side and laid a hand on her shoulder. “Ame. _Amelie_ , Amelia. Cheri, you mustn’t sleep here.”

In response to this, Amelia kept her eyes shut and mumbled something both pleading and uncomplimentary.

Laurence sighed with disappointment, and not for the first time wished he’d been allowed to pick his successor, instead of having her pointed out to him. “As impertinent as your father.” (… of course, if Laurence had been allowed to pick his successor, the Church would probably fall into the ocean before he actually made the decision. His beloved Hunters and Clerics all concerned him equally, for different reasons.) 

Unfortunately, Amelia’s father was not around to scold — not that Laurence thought himself capable of so much as raising his voice just then, with so much loss lingering in his mind — so Laurence had to settle for moving her away from the altar. He nudged her shoulder until she sat up to complain, then grabbed her under her knees and shoulders, and lifted. She was really getting too tall to be carried… Laurence sighed and adjusted his grip so he could hold her like a princess, then turned to walk for the doors.

(Maria had carried him like this, once. That had been a horrible day. Laurence had never carried Maria, in turn — the handful of times she’d been so badly injured in his presence, Gehrman or Ludwig or the both of them were there too, and one of them would grab her before Laurence could so much as finish getting out his emergency kit — the bandages or the blood vials.) 

Amelia stirred in his arms, because apparently being carried was somewhat more intrusive than being poked, prodded and hissed at. She blinked at him. “Master Laurence?”

Laurence peered down at her and tried to look stern, and not like he’d spent the night alternating between tears and an ugly sort of hollowness. “You shouldn’t sleep in the Sanctuary, Ame.”

Amedia blinked again, then her lips curved up in a sleepy, silly smile. _Absolutely ridiculous girl_.

“Sorry, master Laurence.” Amelia mumbled, not seeming sorry at all. Rather, he suspected she was ready to drop back off into sleep, and — yes, that was a cheek on his shoulder, and yes, that was the kitten-soft murmur of a sleeping girl. 

Laurence rolled his eyes and mumbled uncomplimentary things about her parentage. He walked out of the Cathedral — no one stopped him, though the servants at the stairs grumbled a bit when they noticed Amelia in his arms; an oversight Laurence corrected by snarling until they decided better of the indiscretion, and turned their attention elsewhere.

On the left side as one exited the Cathedral, there was an easy to overlook path, and it was this that Laurence took.

He made his way down to a quiet and sequestered neighborhood, lined by thick trees, and where most all the estates boasted overgrown gardens on their sprawling lawns. At the end of this was a house that was decidedly less well-kept than its neighbors — the paint was peeling on the door and window frames, and the vines on the siding were in the process of annexing the entire northward face. The windows were flitted with delicate lattice shutters to keep out daylight, and had thuribles hung from the steel cages around them. Laurence adjusted his grip on Amelia, stepped up on the porch, and knocked.

Inside the house someone moved. They made their slow, quiet way down the stairs, and paused to — Laurence smiled to himself — yes, he knew that sound. That was the click and fumble of someone loading a pistol. They moved to the door, and looked out of the window set in the doorframe. Red eyes, glittering and inhuman in an otherwise human visage. Just the maid. She looked over Laurence and then Amelia; then she sighed and reached to unlock the door.

“Your Grace, my sincerest apologies.” Milia, the house of Aust’s maid, murmured. She didn’t make eye contact, and held out her arms to take Amelia from him.

Laurence handed off his student without argument. “It is lovely to see you doing so well, Ms. Milia. I’m sorry to bother you at this hour, but the little one fell asleep when she ought to be studying, and…”

Milia’s eyes flickered. She cradled Amelia with what seemed to be a little difficulty — she lacked a hunter’s strength, and Amelia was seventeen, not seven — then leaned down to kiss the crown of the girl’s head. “And probably waiting on her father… Well. He’s not here, but… I’ll put her to bed, so please don’t worry.”

Laurence smiled. “I leave her in your capable hands.” He was well aware that Amelia’s father was out of the house. It was, in fact, part of why he was bold enough to walk up to the door uninvited. Ludwig had the most interesting ideas about what his daughter should witness, and apparently his tears for a dead woman were one of the things that had made it onto the ‘no, I’d rather she not see that,’ list. 

“Of course.” Milia shifted, eyes glittering and lips twitching with discomfort. “Ah… Vicar…”

Laurence stepped back from the door, and inclined his head to her. 

Ms. Milia looked deeply uncomfortable. “… if you would wait a moment,” She started, “After I put her to bed. There was extra bread.”

Laurence blinked, puzzled. “What, has he… oh. Well, I suppose this time of year… But you don’t need to. It’s wasted on me, you know.”

Ms. Milia frowned. “Pardon. Have you become you incapable of eating?”

“Ah- no?” Laurence put up a hand to ward her off. “No, it’s not like that at all, I just- you know, I don’t _need_ to…” He trailed off, because Milia’s eyes had narrowed to little red slits, like he was saying something both unnecessary and deeply irritating. 

Milia tilted her head to the side, and asked, with her voice as a passable imitation of a blizzard, “Is it that you dislike Master Ludwig’s food, then, in particular?”

Laurence shut his mouth so fast his teeth clicked, and he cursed himself.

Ms. Milia tossed her head — impertinent, the entire house, from master to heir to servant — and disappeared inside with Amelia before Laurence could collect himself enough to respond. The door swung shut, and Laurence — thought about leaving, he did, but where else was he really expected to be tonight, really?

He was just going to stand at the seaside, or else walk the Ward until dawn kissed the sky. He wasn’t keeping anyone waiting, if he stayed a moment to humour the maid.

(At least it was at night, at least no one was around to witness it. He didn’t want to retaliate for the disrespect, but if they had been seen by others then what he wanted would hardly matter. A reputation was as much what you did as it was who saw you doing it, and if he just made a habit of letting anyone speak to him anyway they liked — that was a slippery slope to make himself at home on. He didn’t want to go back to the bottom of the mountain.)

Laurence stepped off the porch to pace the front lot and examine the… flower garden, or what passed as it. Ludwig’s taste in plants was a little morbid. Aconite, around the columns there. Oleander, in a little bed by a stone bench. Foxglove below the windows. Sadly no more lavender, but then, it was a little cold for the poor plant to survive. Yharnum’s tendency to choke the life out of anything delicate was… remarkable, to be certain.

(Once, Laurence had enjoyed that brutal quality, but now he-)

He could hear footsteps from the house’s upstairs, the muffled creak of a door, Amelia’s indistinct murmuring. He could hear the door creak again, and the maid picking her way back down to his level. He could hear the whisper of the wind in the trees, and the rumbling of someone’s pet hound down the street, but overall it was a remarkably quiet neighborhood. Laurence settled on the bench and waited, lacing his hands on his knees and thought it was a little odd, that the house was only half-familiar to him. Ludwig had owned it for years, but Laurence didn’t really just… appear there for the sake of it. If he was going to see Ludwig, he’d visit the Cathedral apartment after a hunt. And as for here… Tuesday night dinners weren’t the same as being a regular caller, he didn’t think. He’d only really been to the dining room and the parlor.

He had no genuine connection to this house, and no reason to tolerate Ms. Milia. So why was he sitting outside? Aside from a lingering notion that he should, though he could not hope to explain it if someone pressed him.

Maybe he ought to feel some obligation toward the place, for Ludwig owned it and Amelia lived in it. Maybe that was the source of his undesirable tolerance for Milia’s sharp tongue. (Well. She remembered when he wasn’t the Vicar. She’d been there that long, but Laurence liked to forget that fact. _Before_ had been a messy affair, and if Ludwig’s servant had any opinions about it then or now she’d kept them close to her chest.) 

He supposed there were worse things than waiting outside in the peaceful gloam of the evening. What else was he going to do with the night? Just listen to the ocean and think about the Research Hall, or try not to? He could linger on the woman he’d left in charge of it, since it was her death day along with all her victims? Or-

(- gods, he had no idea, when he’d come to Yharnum, but. He’d really picked a home to match his heart. How much of it had twisted him, and how much of its ruin was in turn attributable to him? He needed to know, if he had any hope of fixing it, but he was-)

The house’s door opened. The maid stepped out clutching a basket, stuffed to the brim with what smelled like all variety of baked goods, and a fabric covering that was barely holding them down.

Laurence could still see the pistol on her hip, would bet anything it was still loaded. He smiled at her, because he still had manners, and then he smiled wider when Ms. Milia flushed and looked irritated, because he could still laugh.

“Thank you.” Laurence murmured and moved closer to take the basket. Milia released it and moved back; Laurence smiled wider. “I’ll return these to him when they’re empty.”

Ms. Milia gave him a dead-eyed stare. It was so remarkably akin to one of his Choir Hunters that Laurence had to stifle another laugh.

“I pray you have a good evening, your Grace, and I pray for the Lady Maria.” Ms. Milia told him, stern, and Laurence’s heart twinged even while he was smiling.

Right. He let the smile go.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Laurence murmured, and watched the maid twitch and shake her head.

She regarded him with her expression closed off. “… and I for yours, Vicar. Good evening.” Ms. Milia stepped back into the house. Laurence watched the door swing shut — did not think of another heavy pair of doors, that would never open again, there were really so many by now and he was so tired of recollecting them — and turned to go. 

(Laurence was afraid to look into that abyss, and maybe see what Maria saw. Because if the only way out was really dying-

Laurence was far, far too selfish to ever willfully pay the tab.)

#

  
  
  


He left the neighborhood with a basket of baked goods in his arms. If someone stopped him right then and asked about it, he’d probably lie. He didn’t know what he’d say. But definitely not the truth, because he was barely willing to whisper that in the confines of his head-

( _I don’t want to reject a hand reaching out_ )

-for all that the person who’d made these had not offered them himself, they were still a gift, and one he was unwilling to part with. 

… even if he felt absolutely ridiculous walking with them, but at least at this hour there were few people out to witness it. He walked past the Cathedral again, down the stairs through the almost-empty square (did Pthumerians count as company, honestly?) and through the open gate to the road that wrapped around the edge of the city, and overlooked the seaside. There was a section past the curve in the road built for people to sit in carriages and watch the water.

If it was empty, Laurence would stop there and stay the evening. And if it wasn’t, if Ludwig made it here before him, then Laurence would keep walking. It had happened perhaps seven times of the previous fourteen years, that Laurence had to… find somewhere else to spend the evening. The first time had been the fourth year anniversary, then it skipped a year here or there, and recently… well. The last three years in a row, Laurence had had to keep walking.

His own grief for Maria was complicated — it was wound up in duty and betrayal and love for the same stupid man, or maybe men — and the idea of setting it out beside Ludwig’s was insurmountable. Ludwig’s relationship with Maria, so far as Laurence knew, had not been complicated at all. They had been friends, and comrades, and they had loved each other, and then she had drawn away from everyone and eventually decided to die. Laurence had… no idea what Ludwig had felt when she’d gone. He’d never asked.

He’d been afraid to. It was remiss of him, cowardly. But it was how things were.

… well. Perhaps it had been better to say ‘it hadn’t mattered to him what Ludwig was going through’, though that truth was an uncomfortable one, and so it cut deeper. It wasn’t as if they’d been close themselves — sharing a smile with someone once in a while didn’t mitigate that you worked together by the skin of your teeth, the rest of the time — and Laurence had other dramas that had concerned him more. Like Gehrman leaving. Like grappling with the fact that things were so bad that a Knight of Cainhurst had found them unconscionable. It was a lot to handle then.

It was still a lot.

Maria wasn’t the first friend he’d lost, nor the last. But she was the one that felt like she’d taken something irreplaceable with her. If Laurence felt that way — Laurence, who had fought with her as often as they’d gotten along — what had she snatched from Ludwig or Gehrman as her final riposte?

… Well. By now he knew exactly what she’d taken from Gehrman. It wasn’t the will to exist, exactly, but his will to live in a world without her? That was well and gone. (Could he blame Maria for that? She’d tried to push them away, hadn’t she? Had she calculated that hurt or had it been an accident—?)

Sometimes Laurence liked to torture himself: he’d wonder whether Gehrman would have stopped, like a broken clock, if it had been Laurence to die young instead. If it had been Ludwig.

Laurence had wondered it the most often in the first years, before he realized that making himself sick didn’t actually help anything besides letting him feel like he’d sunk a little lower. And… it was pointless to wonder about it, anyway. It was past. All he could do was try to work in the present. It was an ongoing argument he had with himself, trying to focus on the world he was living in. He liked to think he was getting better at it, but. It seemed like the older he got the more he tried to linger in the past.

( _Don’t walk with the ghosts. Not yet, not yet._ )

He could smell the ocean. The crash of the waves was hypnotic. Once, it had been the thing he liked best about Yharnum; the endless churning water. It let him focus on something besides his own thoughts, and it was grounding, the same way laying down in a field of flowers and sinking his fingers into the earth had been in childhood.

The brine almost drowned out the scents of smog and blood, so far from the city, but there was still something—

… oh, that was… that was eight to seven on their score, then, in Ludwig’s favour. 

Past the barricade — there had been… some kind of accident, Laurence couldn’t rightly recollect, but the railing at the edge was destroyed, and it had been marked off for repairs. There was a Hunter past that barricade, sitting on the edge and looking out at the seaside; familiar shoulders, dark hair, pale clothes, and a tabard embroidered with a holy sword.

Laurence’s fingers tightened on his cane. He thought about walking by for the fifteenth time, like they were strangers, and bile rose in his throat.

… It was only Ludwig. Ludwig couldn’t hurt him if he tried. Laurence shut his eyes to pray for strength. Then he opened them and walked forward to the block, slid his way between two pieces of repair, and padded over to the broken railing.

Past it, scarcely a foot away from him, the stonework ended in a sheer drop. There were frothing white crests battering the cliff below them, and dark water he couldn’t fathom the depths of. He wondered if Maria was somewhere below, and then he had to stifle a laugh because after—

Well. Suffice to say any fondness she had for the seaside was lost down the same well as her precious Rakuyo.

Ludwig hadn’t looked away from the horizon, his expression muted and faraway. 

Laurence knew the look — from funerals, from sunrises, from glances across a hospital floor or in the sanctum of their Church — but he was not sure what it meant. Didn’t have enough data to make the necessary connections. He was wary of it, but—

( _Fifteen times and fifteen years and bile on his tongue_ -)

But the alternative was being a coward, and Laurence had run enough for a lifetime. He didn’t want any more regrets to carry with him. So he tipped his chin back and made himself face his fears, and—

(Somewhere along the line,)

— somehow those had come to include Ludwig. Which was. Something to examine when he was alone, actually.

“Is this spot taken?” Laurence rasped, then hated his own voice for half-betraying him. He shouldn’t have tried for levity, tonight of all nights — he sounded like he was trying to cover a death croak with false cheer.

(… that… was exactly what he was doing, if not in the most literal sense.)

But it broke the spell. Ludwig’s expression was not so lonely, anymore, and his eyes flickered away from the ocean to peer up at Laurence. Ludwig turned his face toward Laurence, silent, his lips pursed while he took measure… or just tried to figure out what the hell Laurence was doing staring down at him just then.

Laurence couldn’t have told him if he asked. He wasn’t even sure he could have lied about it. He adjusted the basket in his arms and stared back, and tried to remind himself that Ludwig couldn’t hurt him, but that was- it crept in on him, in that long and uncomfortable moment, that his presumption was out of date, and probably the guise that his fear was hiding under.

Ludwig was capable of hurting him. By then Ludwig might have been better equipped to do it than anyone else.

So, Laurence was forced to wonder, what stopped him?

Ludwig’s eyes were cold, but while Laurence watched — they lost a little of the glassy hardness of someone lost in the past. Then Ludwig’s lips twitched — slowly, he smiled. It was nothing joyous, but neither was it polite. It was the sort of private smile Laurence was used to receiving at strange hours, in strange places.

(It used to be a lot rarer, hadn’t it? The sort of thing that should surprise him.)

But the only thing that surprised him then was the lack, and that intruding on Ludwig’s grief had netted no more reaction than this. Than Ludwig looking at Laurence like Laurence was running a little late to a meeting they’d agreed on, but nothing beyond the pale, and like he’ll be forgiven if he just speaks.

It was an intensely uncomfortable sort of look. Not the sort of thing Laurence expected to receive, then or ever, and he felt inadequate in the face of it.

A chuckle escaped Ludwig, almost buried by the howl of the wind, and he turned his gaze back to the seaside. “Laurence. I cannot say I expected to see you tonight, of all nights. I hope you weren’t looking for me elsewhere?” He raised his left hand and gestured vaguely to the basket in Laurence’s grip.

The squirming spectre of guilt wriggled and took up a little more space in Laurence’s chest. “Well. That is. Ame fell asleep in the Cathedral, and then Milia wouldn’t let me go without… anyway.” Laurence turned his face away, uncomfortable and unwilling to show it, even if Ludwig had to _know._ “If I’m disturbing you, I’ll go.”

“You’re welcome as you like.” Ludwig shifted to the side in invitation.

After a moment, Laurence lowered himself and sat beside him, flaring his robes out so he hopefully wouldn’t tangle in them when he tried rising. (What an ignominious end that would make for! If there was an afterlife with their friends waiting, none of them would let him hear about anything else, if he died in such a way.) He didn’t know what to do with the basket of bread, so he sat it between them and looked at the water.

(How exactly did one go about spanning an unknown ocean, Laurence wondered? Boats seemed terribly risky, and imprecise besides.)

“… how are you doing?” Laurence asked, his tongue feeling more like sandpaper than flesh, and stared harder at the waves.

Ludwig shifted, and sounded like he was considering the question with more seriousness than it was really due. “Hmm? Mostly tired… I don’t understand how you go around not sleeping, but it’s really not for me.”

Laurence laced his hands in his lap; that hadn’t been what he’d meant. But if it was Ludwig’s preference to discuss it, that was a different matter. “If you need to be assigned less work-”

“Oh, I’m not asking for anything like that.” Ludwig demurred. “I’m really not happy unless I have something to throw myself into.… what about you, Laurence?”

Laurence blinked twice, considered the difference between ‘I’m fine’ — a perpetual lie, and a decent smokescreen besides — and the truth, complicated tangle of things that it was. Thought of the bile. Wondered if he hadn’t been avoiding some realities of himself every time he’d avoided Ludwig, then shunted the thought off the cliff for being unhelpful. “I cried earlier. While I was putting up my hair. Then I saw the shawl and… I don’t know. I didn’t want to leave the bed.” He laughed a little, and to his mortification it sounded wet. “Then I spent most of the walk feeling, I don’t know, guilty for thinking the time went by fast without her. Amongst other things.”

Ludwig had gone so quiet he might have been holding his breath, and Laurence was still looking at the water. But Ludwig had dropped any pretense of inattention, and turned to face Laurence; that was obvious even without Laurence looking back.

The sensation of being watched made Laurence’s skin itch. “Do you know,” He said, before he could really decide what he wanted to say, “I realized we were friends today. That’s sort of stupid, isn’t it?”

Ludwig sucked in a breath, and Laurence nodded, emboldened. “Exactly. It’s ridiculous that I missed it. But, er, I did… sorry about that.” He chanced a look to the side, hoping his contrition was transcribed on his face, and. He found Ludwig looking back at him, like Laurence had done something entirely expected, and besides that not completely awful.

Laurence couldn’t decide if the look was damning or encouraging. He had caused Ludwig a good deal of grief over… over almost thirty years. They’d met when Ludwig was eighteen, and now he was pushing forty-seven.

… Gods, they’ve known each other longer without Maria than with her. How had that happened? Laurence had to suppress a cringe.

“… Perhaps a bit.” Ludwig laughed, “But don’t feel too badly for it, Laurence. It took myself a fair while to accept that we had become companionable. And, ah— earlier… well. You weren’t alone in your grief, it’s- ah. _Hah_. I’m sorry. I don’t know. It’s hard without her.” His gaze flickered towards the water, and his eyes narrowed to slits in his face. “It’s easier now, and more like pushing a boulder up a hill, instead of the same task on a mountainside.”

“… yes, I suppose so.” Laurence clutched at the fabric on his leg and tried to quantify his grief, and came up empty. It wasn’t a Sisyphean task; it was a wall that looked down on him and dared him to climb without gear or any handholds. He did not know what to feel about the comparison. “… If you’d rather I be quiet. I don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind your company, Laurence.” Ludwig interrupted. “If I wanted to be by myself, I wouldn’t be sitting beside a thoroughfare.”

That hit Laurence’s chest like a bullet. He struggled to breathe, wide-eyed, heard the _oh_ that spilled out of him, and had to make himself focus. Yes, Ludwig could definitely hurt him. But it was Laurence’s own fault, after all — he’d never _asked_.

Ludwig’s voice — quiet, like Laurence would bolt, and hesitating — drew him back from the thought. “… Laurence?”

“I’m fine,” Laurence whispered, then cringed and raised his voice to something acceptable for conversation. “Sorry. I mean— I apologize.”

Ludwig gave him a concerned look and Laurence was absolutely tanking things, fantastic, this was not what he’d set out to do tonight by any means.

Laurence sighed, and tried, “… I have some complicated emotions regarding the matter,” And at least that — he said that, and Ludwig smiled at him. Laurence felt himself unthaw a little. It was impossible to dislike someone who could smile like that.

(He had tried. Gods, had he tried. It was so much easier to do whatever you wanted when you didn’t _care_ about the people you might have to hurt.)

“You usually do.” Ludwig inclined his head, “If you want to talk, I am here. And if you’d rather not… well, I am still here.”

“… I suppose you are.” Laurence agreed, and felt a little like he’d just went to the cliff and leaned forward, toward the horizon, until he fell straight off the edge. In that moment the roaring of the ocean was almost deafening. “Gods. You’ve just been there for half our lives at this point, you do realize.”

“Has it been that long?” Ludwig furrowed his brows and thought about it, then winced. “… oh. I suppose so. Well, that’s…” He cleared his throat, some brief discomfort passing his face, “I… suppose the time flew.”

Feeling a little better not to be the only one on unsteady footing, Laurence nodded his head. “Since I was twenty.”

“… gods. Laurence, when did we get old?”

Laurence did some loose math and shrugged. “Fishing hamlet,” He suggested, and it should have cast a pall on the moment, but… they were sitting by the seaside on the anniversary of Maria’s, ah, rampage and suicide. That apparently could do a lot to drag a moment down to the abyssal plane, in terms of mood. So it didn’t really get any worse. But Laurence was still allowed to be surprised about it — in his extensive experience of doing horrible things with good intentions, things could _always_ get worse.

(For example, having one friend kill herself and another decide that he’d rather not live without her, so he—)

( _Focus on the things you can change, Laurence_ )

“… It’s a fantastic mess.” Laurence said, because he found himself empty of desire to camouflage it. What was the point by now? He felt like a vessel which had been poured out. “Do you ever talk to her?”

“Maria?… All the time.” Ludwig shifted, crossing his legs. He seemed amiable enough to the change in topic. “Sometimes to scold her. Sometimes just because I miss talking to her. She had the most morbid taste in novels, did you know?”

Laurence licked his lips. “Yeah. I remember her reading Alraune by the campfire.”

“Ugh.” Ludwig brought up his hand to cover the half-smile curling his mouth. “That book was dreadful… I couldn’t believe she found it so amusing.”

“Because her sense of humour was horrible, just like her.” Laurence grumbled, and Ludwig let out a snort of laughter.

“She would hit you for that.”

“Oh, probably.” Laurence turned his eyes back to the water. “I wish she could. I… wish she had talked to us.” He wished they both had. But neither of them had had much to say, by the end.

(Well. _I look forward to the results of your ministration_ was still more for last words than a message painted in the blood of patients, wasn’t it? Maria hadn’t written a thing and yet her sentiments were loud and clear—)

Ludwig took a heavy breath and let it out — it was the kind of sigh Laurence had offered Gehrman, when they had disagreed about the hunt. And… well, look at where that had gotten Laurence. He was hunting again, wasn’t he? And Gehrman wasn’t there.

(Some days he wasn’t sure Gehrman was anywhere anymore, outside the hazy fever dream where Maria hadn’t left them behind. But that was an ugly thought, and he kept it bundled up tight, and tried not to look at it so often.)

“This might not sound very chivalrous,” Ludwig murmured, and when Laurence looked up, the man had chagrin painted clearly on his face. “But you cannot… save people from themselves.”

“Oh.” Laurence twisted his hands together. “… no. I suppose you can’t.” And that did… shift things for him, actually. To how he felt when people promised to fix him. He let out a soft laugh and brought a hand up to rub at his forehead, just between his brows. “… Gods, Ludwig. Your aim really is something.”

He could feel Ludwig give him a strange look, without bothering to open his eyes. Ludwig murmured, hesitant, “You haven’t seen me shoot in an age, Laurence?”

Laurence let go and raised his head to give him a wan smile. “Try not to linger on it.”

Then it seemed to dawn on Ludwig that Laurence was speaking in metaphors; his face did something complicated, passed through irritation and puzzlement before landing on resignation. Then Ludwig’s lips quirked up in a crooked half smile, and he reached across the space between them, his hand coming to pause over Laurence’s shoulder like he wanted permission.

Laurence leaned into it — something heavy unfolded in his chest, relief mixed up with pain and affection. “So if you figured it out before me,” Laurence nudged the basket further from them, so he could shift closer to Ludwig. “When did we actually become friends? Because it’s, ah. You know I hate not knowing.”

Ludwig snorted and rubbed Laurence’s shoulder. “Oh, that was… Sometime around when I gave you the spare key to my flat, I think.”

Laurence blinked twice. Had it been that long? Ludwig had done that ages ago. Actual years, even. “I thought that was so I would stop climbing in the window.”

Ludwig glanced at him, lips twisted up from wryness. “It was.”

Ludwig’s hand was far warmer than the wind, and Laurence tried to focus on it and let it ground him the way the crashing waves used to. He licked the back of his teeth, caught deciding whether he felt guilty for living without Maria, and whatever bit she’d ripped out of him. Whether he felt guilty for enjoying what the dead were made to abandon. All the little ugly questions that wanted to catch up, when a person was caught in the narrow window of the witching hour.

“How do you get out of bed come the evening?” Laurence asked, because he wanted to know. Because he should have asked before, but _before_ just then it hadn’t seemed important. (Or maybe because before just then, he was more afraid of an answer than an absence.)

Ludwig blinked at him. He let go of Laurence’s shoulder, folded his hands in his lap.

Laurence did not keep leaning after him, bereft of contact, but he thought about it. It was only that it seemed a little too presumptuous, when he was running his mouth and asking all sorts of things Ludwig didn’t owe him answers for.

“Do you mean to ask about now?” Ludwig asked, patient like he was speaking to a new Hunter, “Or back then? Somewhere in the interim?”

“… just…” Laurence made himself let go of his robes, and made a loose gesture towards the horizon instead. “All of it. What have you been doing?”

Ludwig inhaled, and his chest shuddered with emotion Laurence couldn’t speak to knowing. “That’s — well.” Ludwig rubbed his cheek, turned his eyes moonward. Tonight it was barely a sliver in the sky, and the pull was not quite so terrible as it could be. “Well, when she went. I had to keep getting up, because I was running the Healing Church Workshop. You know, there was still so much to do… and then there was no one else to do it, not without Gehrman. And by then he was… really in no state to take more students.” Ludwig paused a moment and rubbed at his temples. “And if I didn’t get out of bed, you would have been saddled with my workload on top of yours, and that would not have been fair by any stretch. So it’s not that I- I didn’t want to. I certainly thought about it. But it would have done no good, and so much harm, to give in. So I… repeated that to myself, I suppose, and it was usually enough.”

Sometime toward the end of that, Laurence had to very quietly remind his lungs that he needed to breathe, so could they please work? And he went back to fisting the cloth near his knee, and forced a hum from his unwilling throat. Because as much as it stung, he needed to hear this. “And then? After the… the worst of it. What came after?”

Ludwig shifted. “It got easier. There were new Hunters — none of them were Maria, of course, and I did not attempt to replace her. But there were people I could talk to, and that helped.” He paused, almost visibly rolling over a notion in his mind. “I met Amelia, and you agreed to the adoption.”

That was a somewhat inaccurate summary of events, from Laurence’s recollection. “I agreed, you say…?” He shook his head. “That’s, that’s not how I remember things going at all.”

“No?” Ludwig slanted him a look, and Laurence snorted with laughter in the face of it.

“ _No_ , definitely not. You came in and bullied me until I agreed to your demands.” He reached between them — it seemed so much easier, now that Ludwig had done it first — and prodded a finger into Ludwig’s ribs. “It was positively brutish. I couldn’t believe you.”

Ludwig grunted at him, and protested, “I have bullied no one in my life.”

Laurence narrowed his eyes and gave him another poke for the argument. “You had a _battle plan_. Try and lie to me again.”

Ludwig huffed and looked away, lips twitching like he was smothering down a smile. “… well, it is not _usually_ viewed as a bad thing to have a plan when going into something, Laurence. You might recollect that from our schooling?”

Laurence poked him again for that exceptional contortion of the facts. And the implication that he had been an inattentive student. Really all of it. “Alright. So you had your work and you have Amelia. That’s how it is now, too, isn’t it?”

Ludwig’s lips twitched again. “Yes, more or less. Though, I notice you left yourself out of that summary, and I feel I would be remiss if I did not question the absence…?”

Laurence blinked, and demurred. “My estimation of myself isn’t that high.” Really. He was doing so much better than his twenties, he promised.

“Oh? That’s news to me.” Ludwig gave him a radiant smile, and Laurence swatted his side for it, which made the smile melt into the _disappointed_ face Ludwig used to browbeat his Hunters into good behavior. “ _Laurence_. I am trying to have a heartfelt conversation with you.”

(Laurence wasn’t _immune_ to the disappointed look, but he had a far greater tolerance than some greenhorn Hunters. He had been fending it off since Byrgenwerth.)

“No, you are trying to fluster me.” Laurence argued, and gave him several sharp pokes for the effort. “I think I know what that looks like by now.”

“Well—” Ludwig had to stifle another smile. “In any case, that doesn’t change that it is accurate. Thinking that I’ll get to talk to you does help me to get out of bed in the evening.”

Laurence considered smacking him again. Instead he wound his hand in the material of Ludwig’s coat and tugged at it. “You’re a bastard.”

“Yes, the feeling is mutual.” Ludwig tipped his head to the side and smiled a little wider. “Hmm. Laurence?”

Laurence eyed him suspiciously. “… what?”

Ludwig’s eyes fairly glittered, and his lips curved in a smile that was breathtaking for reasons that Laurence was not comfortable examining now or ever. “Thank you for the company tonight.”

… Fuck, _ow_. “Yes,” Laurence said, a little dazed, “Of course. I should also express my gratitude.” His grip on the material tightened. It was a cruel thing to say — but Ludwig did not seem to revel in the pain it had brought. The smile on his face had softened, and he reached across the space and settled his hand against Laurence’s, and that was a palliative that soothed the worst of the pain. Maybe it hadn’t been meant to hurt. Maybe it was more like lancing a wound that had gotten infected, and Laurence could wrap his head around that. He’d founded the _Healing Church;_ before he’d been a cleric he’d been a medical student, clutching a scalpel over a cadaver and trying to understand how he could make people better _._

They sat in silence for a while. If it wasn’t the most comfortable, well, it was the anniversary of a murder-suicide, and they were grieving the murderer. (Of course Laurence didn’t approve of what she’d done, but it wasn’t — they couldn’t pretend to be surprised. They knew what Maria was capable of, and they had loved her anyway.) Laurence wasn’t sure he was ready to broach that part of things just yet, if he would ever be. Was it really alright to grieve for murderers?

(When he died, would it be alright for anyone to grieve him? Did it matter at all?… dead was dead, right?)

“… Laurence?” Ludwig asked, his voice a little weaker than it had been. It startled Laurence out of his thoughts entirely — he scanned Ludwig for injury, because if Ludwig’s voice had a tremble, then of course there was something out of place. And then Laurence scanned the surrounding area, because Ludwig wasn’t bleeding or holding anything or looking ill, and yet his expression was pinched and his voice was like _that_.

But there wasn’t anything around.

“Is there something you need?” Laurence asked, coming to the uncomfortable realization that if there was nothing around them and no injury that he could see, then Ludwig was probably hurting in a less physical sense, and not as alright as the picture the night had been painting. Laurence shifted a little closer yet, examining Ludwig like he could divine an answer without words. (Of course he couldn’t, but damned if he would not try, Laurence was not a man that _quit_ ).

Ludwig’s head twitched towards him. Laurence got a glance at Ludwig's expression: frozen on a watery smile, with glassy eyes and the gleam of tears and- Laurence tried _very very hard_ not to panic, and he even mostly succeeded. Okay, this was- he needed- he’d try hugging him, and either Ludwig would: stop crying; break down entirely; or, he’d throw Laurence off the cliff for presuming. It was the most viable option. Laurence lunged into Ludwig’s space before he could rethink it.

Ludwig huffed in surprise; Laurence could feel hands come up behind him and hover over his back, uncertain. “… Laurence?”

Laurence squeezed Ludwig around the ribs. “Mmhmm?”

“… did you just panic?” Ludwig sounded a little disbelieving.

Laurence was ready for this question, as it happened. “I did not.” As there were no witnesses to prove otherwise, and Laurence was very willing to lie on the matter.

Ludwig snorted, and his chest shook, and Laurence was definitely being laughed at. But that was better than tears, probably, he thought. He didn’t really have the fortitude to watch Ludwig cry. It was just — he’d done it the once, at Maria’s funeral, and Laurence hadn’t even much _liked_ him at the time, and it had still struck at his core like the snap of a whip.

For just a moment Laurence found that he _hated_ Maria, because this was something he couldn’t fix, because it was something she’d broken and someone she’d left behind and Laurence was just… there. Just stopping up a gap.

“It’s mostly little things.” Ludwig muttered, sounding as if he were trying to get a grip on his own emotions, so Laurence wouldn’t have to deal with them. It wasn’t much nicer to witness than it was to feel that way himself, Laurence realized. He didn’t want Ludwig to manage both of their emotions — but he was struggling to prove himself worthy of doing the job himself, either. Of course Ludwig was trying to protect him from it.… it was frustrating, but Laurence was not irritated with the other man, only his own failures.

Ludwig’s fingers twitched on Laurence’s back. “Like going to the market and seeing a book she’d like, and I’ll catch myself thinking what a shame that she can’t read it, and then I-” He let out a choked-off noise, either a laugh or a sob, and Laurence _ached_ , “I end up buying the damn thing to read it to her. Even if it's something awful, if it seems like she'd like it... I don't know, I feel closer to her. Or I see something Gehrman would like, but I… well, I can’t make anything but weapons, so I leave those well enough alone.” He took a deep breath, shut his eyes, and the worst of the trembling abated. “But it’s… I suppose it’s like your singing, isn’t it?”

His… “Oh, yes. I suppose so.” Laurence leaned in and pressed his ear to Ludwig’s chest, listened to the steady thump of his heart, and tried not to mind that Ludwig did not startle at all from the touch. 

(He’d let him close, when he wasn’t looking. Did that count for the both of them? Did Ludwig get the same sinking sense of panic when he realized he’d let someone as dangerous as Laurence so close? Or was he aware that Laurence had, at a far more distant point in their past, been declawed against him?)

Laurence licked his lips and thought about singing, something low and sad, or lilting and longing. “I do sing that wretched song whenever I find myself lingering on Gehrman.”

“… there’s a specific tune?” Ludwig asked, and his hand pressed to Laurence's back properly, _finally_ , and that was a world better, even if it was shaking, even if neither of them had any idea what they were doing. At least they were muddling through a similarly hopeless strait together. “Wait. It’s the one about the mountain, isn’t it.”

“Er. Yes, that’s the one.” Laurence let go of the coat and curled his fingers in Ludwig’s cloak instead, and tugged it a little. Ludwig leaned closer to him and made a puzzled noise that Laurence didn’t bother acknowledging. Instead, he said, “I thought you didn’t care for music.”

“I notice when you sing something often enough.” Ludwig muttered, and if he sounded a little mulish, well; that wasn’t as common as it used to be, but it was familiar enough ground, and Laurence felt a little steadier to hear it then. “Which one is for Maria?”

Laurence chewed his tongue and almost asked why Maria should merit her own melody, then snorted with laughter and admitted, “Lilium.”

Ludwig went very still against him. “Laurence, she would _hate that_.”

“I know.” Laurence whispered, grinning through fresh tears. “That’s the best part of the matter.”

Probably because he wasn’t sure how to react to that — how did one react to the intricacies of emotions besides lying through their teeth? Laurence had yet to determine an answer and was muddling along blind each day of his life — Ludwig patted Laurence on the back a few times. “Sometimes I forget you can be cruel, but then you go and say something like that…”

“Ludwig, I fight with a whip.” Laurence shut his eyes and wiped at one with his sleeve, as discretely as he was able. “Of course I’m cruel.” And usually that particular bit of self-knowledge didn’t bother Laurence — he was as he was — but tonight it was nagging a little at his thoughts, because he didn’t want to be cruel to people he loved, or people under his protection. He had better targets to aim for. “… Ah… Ludwig…” Laurence had to clear his throat. “That is— did you want company here? Before. The years before, I mean…” He trailed off, feeling unbearably awkward, and irritable for it. He had to remind himself that everything took practice, that this was a skill he’d been neglecting his entire life, so of course he had as much grace exercising it now as a newborn fawn. It did not make him feel any better. Actually he felt sort of cold and slimy, like he’d rolled in afterbirth, after that simile. Just dreadful, honestly.

Ludwig’s fingers twitched, and he spoke his next words in a slow and considering way. “The years that I came here, it was because I was open to company.”

Laurence breathed through the lance of discomfort he felt. It got a little easier each time, so that was something. “If that’s the case, then… I’m afraid I have been unkind to you. I… would offer my sincere apology, if you’re willing to humour it after this evening.”

Ludwig’s fingers twitched again, then he rubbed his thumb against a rib that was out of place. It was unpleasant, and Laurence broke from his morose mood a moment to grumble at him for it.

Ludwig gave him a look which just skirted being judgemental without actually crossing over into it; worse was his voice, which was far more grounded and sensible than Laurence thought tolerable at that hour. “Laurence, did _you_ want company?”

Laurence blinked twice and tried to blunt his confusion, though he didn’t quite succeed. “What… does that have to do with it?” He twisted so he could look up.

To his surprise, Ludwig was giving Laurence the same look he got when Laurence challenged people to duels. The _I am both angry_ _ **and**_ _disappointed, and you’re going to hear about it at length when that door is closed,_ look. Laurence hadn’t gotten that look in a while. He hadn’t missed it, either. He grimaced.

“… unbelievable.” Ludwig breathed the word and looked away, his lips twitching from annoyance. “Alright, perhaps we should get this out of the way before the new year. Yes, that’s probably best… _Hm._ Laurence.” Ludwig turned just enough to pin him with one vivid green eye. “My emotions are not your responsibility.”

Laurence stared back at him. Obviously they weren’t, except when they were, which was when Laurence was being… selfish, or clueless about the finer points of interpersonal relationships not build on mutual greed or antipathy or… or whatever. Unfortunately Laurence was these things rather often, and his attempts to compensate with scholarly pursuits hadn’t… quite panned out the way he intended. “I didn’t say they were, Ludwig, I only apologized for not considering them.”

Ludwig arched his brows and looked entirely unimpressed. That was also a familiar look. It had accompanied Laurence many, many times. Before duels, after mouthing off to guards while Laurence was on the wrong side of a cell door, and of course the morning after they’d broke into the wine cellar at Byrgenwerth and gotten completely sloshed. To name a few, in their reverse order. Ludwig asked him, “Have you considered that if you’re not in a mind for company, then it’s probably just going to be destructive for the both of us, if you try to force it?” 

Another spike of discomfort made itself known. Laurence twitched, and Ludwig pressed on, in the damnable way he had, “If you needed to be alone to handle things, then I’m glad. Of course I am happy you’re here tonight — but I’m just as happy you took care of yourself when you needed to.”

Laurence huffed at him, his brows furrowing. “… Do you know, this is why it took me so long to like you.”

Ludwig’s hand pressed closer to Laurence’s back. The man tilted his head and asked, politely, and with his eyes gleaming, “Because I think before I speak?”

Laurence gave him a sour look and reached for the bread basket. “Because you go and make me sound completely irrational, even to myself.” He rifled around blind for a roll, figuring it didn’t really matter what his fingers closed on. “It’s not a very endearing quality.” It would all be good, and even if it wasn’t, Ludwig had made the stupid bread, so Laurence would eat it. 

Rather than be insulted by Laurence’s denigrations, Ludwig looked a little like he was trying not to smirk. Netting a baleful look from Laurence didn’t erase it, either.

Ludwig glanced away from him, smiled a little wryly, and said, “… rational people don’t take over cities, Laurence.”

Laurence blinked twice. “No?” It was news to him, but it probably shouldn’t have been. The Ward had practically begged for someone to put a knife in her last guardian, and who was Laurence to deny his beloved Yharnum anything? “So you’re admitting to being irrational yourself?”

(He’d picked a city that matched his heart, for better or worse, and now he had to live with it.) 

Ludwig looked away. “Oh, probably not. But I would like to think that my imitation of it is a bit more credible than yours.”

Laurence’s shoulders shook. “You are insufferable.” He mumbled, and settled his head back down to hide tears. They really weren’t necessary just then. He was happy, honestly he was.

“You are a walking nightmare.” Ludwig responded, looking magnanimous. Laurence wasn’t sure if he should laugh or smack him, but he didn’t do either, and Ludwig added, “Though you are at least a consistent one, which I do appreciate.”

Laurence snorted. “Though of course you aren’t referencing anyone we know.” The shape of Gehrman, of Maria, of so many people they’d never see again seemed to be standing around them as spectres in that moment… Laurence shut his eyes and counted his breaths. _Focus on what you can change. Focus on what’s still here._

“Of course, I would never.” Ludwig agreed with no heart, and went back to seeking out little knots of muscle on Laurence’s back with his thumb for abusing. Laurence hated him for it, but also he was too warm to bother moving away so it would stop.

He hadn’t decided if he liked this mode of grieving better than staring at the ocean or walking in the dark. It was just — it was too different to really compare the two.

(Well, he consoled himself; it wasn’t like he was throwing a lavish memorial service. It would have been tasteless after what she’d done, and either way Maria would have hated it, and Laurence wasn’t… that spiteful, anyway. Maybe if grieving a murderer was like this, it was alright. Just remembering her next to the ocean she’d grown to hate after what they’d done beside it.)

“Laurence?” Ludwig’s gentle voice, again, drew him from the thought; Laurence let it go entirely so he could listen better.

He raised his head. “What is it now?”

Ludwig shifted, whether because the ground was cold or because his own thoughts had caused some discomfort. “Earlier, you asked how I got out of bed. Am I… allowed to return the question?”

Laurence’s eyes widened. “Oh. Um…” How to even broach- he didn’t give himself time to think about it, because he was terrified of the possibility he’d swallow his tongue and draw out saying nothing at all until Ludwig gave him up for lost. “No.” It had happened too many times before; a flat denial was better. He thought.

Ludwig exhaled. When Laurence peeked up, there was nothing disappointed in Ludwig’s face, and that was worse. It was always worse than a look of judgment. Laurence dredged up the best words he could, and hoped they were enough. “I’m not ready to talk about that tonight. But—” His fingers twitched. “— soon.”

Ludwig’s lips twitched, and he glanced down. “Soon?” He slanted Laurence a half-smile, which was only a little watery-looking. “Do you mean soon like another fifteen years, or…?”

“Sooner than that.” Laurence turned his face away. “I don’t know. I did apologize.”

“Mm.” Ludwig leaned on his shoulder, and Laurence had to brace his hands on the ground to keep them both upright. “Well. If you said yes, I would have been willing to wait. But I do prefer the answer you gave.”

Laurence’s fingers twitched. He brought the forgotten bread to his mouth, and mumbled, “Ugh. I hate when you tease me.”

He took a bite, and found it was excellent bread, with a hard crust and soft insides. Laurence still didn’t need to eat, but it was a gift, and he did appreciate that. It also wasn’t a charcoal briquette of a biscuit, and he’d eaten a dozen of those once, ages and ages ago. Comparatively, it was no hardship at all to consume one well-made roll.

Ludwig’s grip on his back tightened, and his voice came out pleasant. “Consider it payback for the first fourteen years of our being acquainted.”

Well, that was probably fair. Laurence supposed he could live with that. “Fine. Ludwig?”

Ludwig hummed, and said without much in the way of inflection, “Laurence.”

Stupid bastard had to make this difficult. Well. Laurence took a breath and mumbled, “I’m glad you’re still here.”

… for that Ludwig gave him a soft look, the kind that made Laurence feel a little like he’d been pinned to a table for dissection. He tried not to squirm under its scrutiny.

Ludwig smiled — his hand was warm on Laurence’s back, heavy and grounding — and he murmured, “There’s really nowhere else I could imagine being, now, nor would I wish anyone different beside me.”

That hurt for different reasons than before, but maybe it wasn’t meant to sting at all. Still, Laurence had to catch his breath again, and he found himself staring at the stone rather than his company while he tried to catch up with the notion.

… Well. Perhaps he wasn’t so much of a stopgap, then. (Or maybe everyone was, and… that was alright too.)

Something drained out of him, an ugly thing that had been twisting and fighting and had finally, finally come unwound. Laurence clutched the half-eaten roll close to him and tried to ignore the trembling of his fingers. Then he settled against Ludwig’s side properly, pressed together from their hips up, and pushed his forehead to his friend’s shoulder, and tried to relax while they sat between their present and their memories. It wasn’t as hard as it could have been. Probably easier than the years before, even. It wasn’t the same as something being easy, but—

Laurence thought, maybe, he could be happy about it without feeling too guilty. And Ludwig seemed to be managing the same. At least for that moment, that was worth the world to Laurence; it was even enough to drown out the worst of his ghosts, at least for the evening. ( _Even just a while is okay. Focus on what you can fix._ )

**Author's Note:**

> *updated end note: Since I never actually put it in here, Lilium is not a period accurate song, but the idea of Laurence singing it at Maria was very funny to me, too funny not to include. If you've never listened to it, it's beautiful - and used as the opening for Elfen Lied. The song about the mountain is a reference to a Victorian folk song that I cannot currently find for the life of me.   
> end note: I do want to make it clear that I don’t advocate the “hope people divine what you need without telling them” school of thought.
> 
> Following that, Ludwig commenting that he was happy to be beside Laurence wasn’t him being psychic - he’s just Like That all the time, only Laurence doesn’t always fucking listen to him.
> 
> Editing this hurt my beta and she demanded “the fluffiest smut” in recompense so, uh, guess I’ll be doing that next. Thanks MissMonie! <3 then after she gave me feedback I went in and wrote the workshop scene and hurt _myself,_ whoo.
> 
> When I was writing this, I was thinking a lot about emotions and grief and how we process information through those lenses, and how when I am already low (like most people) I struggle to see any positives and just kind of entrench myself in the sad. But when I can get out of my own head and focus on the people around me, it becomes really obvious that I am loved, and I feel silly for ever worrying. (For an example from the day I wrote this — I had my first long conversation with my sister since we had a fight the month prior, and my grandmother and brother left us alone to talk even though we took, like, two hours and they wanted to leave and eat dinner. Which I felt awful about when I found out, lmao). But I'm also fortunate enough to be in a situation where there are people who love me so, take that with a grain of salt.
> 
> As another fun note, I didn’t expect to continue with “we should talk about this” but this is basically a part 2 to that. It happened because I sat in on the same sister’s phone appointment and something her psychiatrist said kind of made things click for me about compound grief and people living in the past, and I sat down to explore it in here the moment my family departed. 6k or so later… :”D and then MissMonie gave me feedback and I almost doubled the word count with edits. I think it's worlds better for it, but gosh I'm exhausted after.


End file.
